The Watcher

I THINK I COULD DRIVE TO BESO DE LA MUERTE IN my sleep, I've done it so many times. And even though it's almost November, a warm Santa Ana wind has turned up the heat and chased all traces of clouds and smog out of a sapphire sky. Even the Bay sparkles with diamond-tipped swells. I put the top down on the Jag and let the wind tickle my skin and play in my hair. It's the kind of day that I imagine the chamber of commerce pays photographers to capture. Postcard perfect.

The kind of day even a vampire enjoys. Makes me glad for adaptation. A few centuries ago, I could have only dreamed of days like this. I'd have been confined to some dark hole to await the safety of the night.

We've come a long way.

I've come a long way.

But not far enough, evidently. I pick up the tail in my rearview mirror just as I get on 5 South, heading for the border. I noticed the car first on Pacific Coast Highway, a blue late-model sedan. It stuck with me as I cruised along the Bay, turned up Grape, and now it's two car lengths behind on the freeway. Coincidence? Could be. But more likely, it's Foley. I've had experience with the Feds. They don't take no lightly. And they don't believe anything you tell them that doesn't fit into their preconceived notions. Foley believes I know more than I told him and he's damn well going to prove it by letting me lead him straight to Max.

Sorry to disappoint you, Foley. I slow down and swerve onto the right shoulder. May as well let the jerk know that I've made him.

The blue Ford cruises past, the driver, not Foley, neither slows nor looks over at me. And he doesn't get off at the next exit, either.

Okay, I overreacted. I wait for a break in traffic and pull out. Still, I keep a lookout for anyone appearing to take undue interest in where I'm headed. Not an easy trick, since Mexico is a popular tourist destination from San Diego. But when I've crossed the border and set out on the road less traveled, away from Tijuana, and there's no one behind me, I start to relax. I guess I've let my imagination get the better of me.

Culebra is standing outside the saloon when I pull up, talking to a woman I don't recognize. She's human, I sense that right away. She stands with her back to me, weight evenly distributed on both feet, almost defensively. She's tall, taller than Culebra, with brunette hair drawn back in a scruffy ponytail. There's more hair out of the rubber band than in it. She's dressed in jeans and a tank top. Through the veil of hair that has escaped the rubber band, I see a tattoo at the nape of her neck, a snake coiled around a rod of some sort. There's another tattoo at the back of her shoulder. That one is a skull with a crimson rose where the mouth should be. She's in good shape, well-muscled arms and shoulders, small waist, narrow hips.

She turns at the sound of the car, glances my way, turns back to Culebra. Dismisses me with that one glance.

I immediately don't like her.

Still, I need to feed. And this is a human.

A host? I ask Culebra, climbing out of the car. My salivary glands have sprung into action.

He gives a rough shake of his head. His eyes never leave the woman's face and he's listening intently.

I can't tell if the shake is meant for me, or his companion. I step closer.

Go inside.

Culebra issues the order in a tone I've never heard him use before on anyone, let alone me. Cold. Belligerent. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

The woman turns again in my direction. Her face is thin, her mouth generous, despite the tight frown. She fixes me with a look designed to scare me or send me fleeing into the safety of the bar. It's a practiced scowl, full of venom.

Biting this one's neck will be a pleasure.

I look at Culebra. Is she kidding?

I don't get the reaction I expect. Culebra actually grabs my arm and propels me through the saloon's swinging doors.

I'm so startled, I let him.

His eyes are on fire. Please, trust me on this. Stay here.

I nod. It's all I can do, I'm still dumbstruck by being manhandled by Culebra. He drops my arm and whirls away from me, back through the doors.

I look around. The place is empty. Unusual. There are always desperados of some sort hanging around. Was it the woman outside that scared them away? Are they cowering in the caves waiting for her to leave?

I take a step toward the door. Culebra didn't tell me I couldn't listen.

Culebra is speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

Damn. If he was having a telepathic communication with her, I could understand. For some reason, language is no barrier to thought transference. But he's speaking out loud and quickly. Because of me? Does he suspect I'm listening? Dumb question. Of course, he suspects. More than suspects.

I wish I had a better command of the Spanish language. David is fluent. He takes over when the need arises. I can only pick out a few words here and there. Culebra and the woman are arguing, that's obvious, but about what? So far, the words I snatch out of the conversation are disjointed. Someone or something wants to come here. Culebra doesn't want it. The woman is insisting.

And she's threatening him in some way. I don't need to know the words to grasp the implication. She's dangerous. Otherwise, Culebra would have gotten rid of her. Or not allowed her to come to Beso de la Muerte in the first place. His powerful magic would have prevented it.

She's a human and exerting enough pressure on Culebra to force this kind of confrontation. Who is she?

Their conversation teeters back and forth between threat and counterthreat and finally some sort of compromise must be reached because the tone softens into conciliation. I venture a peek outside. Culebra is embracing the woman. His face is to me and his expression is hard. She pulls back and lays a hand against his cheek. Then she walks away, down the steps, toward-what? The only car outside is mine. By the time I've registered that and look around for her, she's gone.

How did she do that?

I start outside, to question Culebra. But he pushes right past me into the saloon. He can't have forgotten I'm here, yet he doesn't so much as glance my way as he makes his way behind the bar. His mind is as black and impenetrable as ever I've experienced. He stoops to take a beer from the cooler, pops the top, and drains the bottle in one long, gurgling swig.

When he reaches for a second, I hold out a hand. "Mind if I join you?"

The sound of my voice startles him. The bottle slips from his hand and crashes to the floor. I jump, too. He stares at me, eyes dull until recognition sparks them back to life.

"Anna. What are you doing here?"

"You're kidding, right? You forget our conversation last night?"

He doesn't respond. And he doesn't look like he's kidding. I jab a thumb toward the door. "Who was that?"

"A friend."

"Friend? I didn't think so. I may not be able to understand Spanish, but I understand friendship. That was not a friendly conversation. And why are we talking like this? Why don't you let me into your head?"

Culebra presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, as if reinforcing the barrier that's keeping me out. "It's better you don't know about this."

In two steps I'm across the room and beside him at the bar. "You can't be serious. She was threatening you in some way. Do you think I'll let that go?"

Culebra looks up at me and laughs softly. "No. You are too stubborn to do that."

He adds, And not bright enough to know when you should.

He watches for a reaction.

I don't give him the one he expects. You are probably right. So stop fighting it. Tell me what she is.

What she is? Not who?

She felt human. But she disappeared.

Culebra reaches again under the bar. This time when he straightens up he has two bottles of beer in his hand. He pops both tops, comes around, slides onto a bar stool and holds one out to me. When we've both taken a drink, he places his bottle on the bar and swivels to face me.

"You are right that she is not entirely human. She calls herself a Wiccan."

The phrase throws me at first, but then I remember what it is. "You mean she is a witch."

"She prefers Wiccan."

Semantics. I recall that Wiccans prefer the other title because "witch" conjures up evil associations. It also conjures up black cats and broomsticks. "So, is that how she did it? She had a broom stashed outside that she hopped on? Off to a Quidditch match maybe?"

But if Culebra catches the reference, he doesn't acknowledge it. Neither does he smile.

"Okay," I say. "Not a Harry Potter fan. But witchcraft is mostly dancing naked in the moonlight and love potions, isn't it? She was threatening you."

Culebra lowers his eyes. "It's not important."

The words are spoken softly, the tone almost indifferent. But the air around us shimmers with negative energy. He's sending me a message in a way he's never done before. He's telling me to back away. It's a threat-but not quite. Ice forms along my spine.

I stare at him, not understanding, not accepting. When he raises his eyes to meet mine, the feeling is gone.

"You must not come back here for a while," he says.

"What?"

"Go home, Anna. I have seen to your needs."

"My needs? What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere."

He isn't listening. "I will let you know when it is safe to return."

"Safe? Who the hell was that woman?"

There's no answer. I'm looking right at him.

Then suddenly I'm not.

Because in the blink of an eye, Culebra is gone.